“THIS is the thirty-first story,” said the publisher; “how many more do you propose to write?” “The question you should have asked,” replied the author, “is how many less?” “Less than what?” inquired the publisher irritably. “Less than what I could if I’m not stopped. I am like the princess who when she opened her mouth breathed jewels, which her detractors alleged were toads—jewels, I would observe, four words long which on the stretched forefinger——” “I have my own opinion,” said the publisher firmly, “on the question of jewels and toads! I think forty would constitute a full drove or clutch, or whatever a group of that species is called.” “Very well,” said the author, deeply affronted, “I will now tell you the sad incident which I am bound, in view of your attack upon me, to call ‘Quantity is better than Quality.’

“There was once,” said the author, “in the eastern marches of a highly-constitutionalised monarchy, a society whose members were pledged to breathe only once a week. They aspired by the force of this remarkable example to discourage the distressing continuity of breathing among the lower classes. Now it must be obvious at once that even well-born persons could only impose this limitation upon themselves if assisted by nature. And nature had assisted them. For to reveal the truth (which they had concealed from the warm-blooded proletariat), they were not only blue-blooded but actually cold-blooded. It will be seen therefore that their action, though in itself meritorious, involved a less sacrifice than was commonly represented by their champions.

“From the outset their efforts were openly derided by the lowest classes, who, so far from ceasing to breathe, if anything breathed more and louder than ever. But fortunately in that country there was a middling class—known for purposes of reference as the backbone of the country—who knew how to value their social superiors. These, therefore, with much agony and spiritual exercise, began to practise the new mode, letting it be gradually understood that breathing was vulgar. Their contortions, as may well be imagined, afforded much amusement to the society and received, as was right, a considerable measure of public approbation at their hands. Unluckily, however, the middling class tended to carry the matter too far. For in their excess of zeal they not only reduced the amount of their breathing, but even ceased breathing altogether. In such cases the formula ‘He (or she) is not dead but sleeps’ was generally applied. For no one would admit the social disgrace of being dead.

“Nobody knows how long this engaging state of affairs would have continued if it had not been for a cessation of work by the Banded Guild of Sextons and Gravediggers. These simple fellows naturally welcomed the increase of business that came their way as the result of the new fashion. But unhappily they became involved in a serious demarcation dispute with another association—“The Society of Critics, Essayists and Writers of Belles Lettres.” This latter body, it had always been recognised, were alone entitled to bury the living (with a subsidiary function of resurrecting the dead). They protested accordingly with the greatest vigour against the invasion of their sphere by a guild whose affair was solely (as their own rules showed) with the dead.

“The Government of the country, quite properly and according to the accepted practice, attempted to hush the matter up. But the Society of Critics were able by virtue of their association with the newspaper press to defeat this laudable endeavour. To the disgust of the remainder of the middling class, and in spite of the advice freely tendered by some of the older soldiers among the upper class, to the effect that the matter should be decided by the general execution of all members of both rival bodies, the question was remitted for decision to an impartial arbitrator. After a long hearing and the most anxious consideration this gentleman issued his award. It was a long and cogently written document, and aroused general dissatisfaction. For among other illuminating observations, he pointed out that if a man is only as old as he feels, then, a fortiori, he is only as dead as he admits. This was generally regarded by the critics as a decision in their favour. On the other hand, the sextons drew attention to another portion of the report, in which the arbitrator eloquently reminded those who had appointed him that his countrymen, whose proud boast was that they did not know when they were beaten, would still less be likely to know when they were dead. His final recommendation was, however, equally distasteful to both parties. For he concluded by observing that to those who were of like mind with him there was no death. He would refer to M. Maeterlinck, the well-known Belgian expert on bees: ‘Death,’ he began in a passage long after quoted in the schools, ‘is the door of life.’

“The issue being thus left in doubt, the sextons—warm-blooded as they were and breathing noisily—cut the knot by a general cessation of work. The critics, though invited by an enthusiastic press to show their quality, restricted themselves to stating publicly that the pen was mightier than the spade, and leaving it there.

“The deadlock was only resolved by announcement on the part of the head of the Government (the coldness of whose blood was sufficiently established to condone any eccentricity) that in future he for one would breathe continuously. To which an even colder (and bluer) blooded colleague of ducal rank added that he would not merely breathe but actually snore.

“It was, however, made clear that this announcement was entirely spontaneous and had no connection with the deplorable stoppage of work. In the result the middling class resumed their breathing. The sextons returned to their diminished labours, and the critics, discovering a new and living novelist of genius, set about his interment with renewed vigour. And thus,” concluded the author, “we see that Quantity is better than Quality.”

“Talking of toads,” said the publisher. “Yes,” replied the author, “let us talk of them. I remember that they have jewels in their foreheads.” “Then yours,” snarled the publisher, “must have turned their backs.”